


Baby, I'll Bleed You Dry

by girlwiththeradishearrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen, Love/Hate, Older Man/Younger Woman, thought this would be an interesting pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:31:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwiththeradishearrings/pseuds/girlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doran Martell secures an alliance with the North when Winterfell agrees to the betrothal of Oberyn and Lyanna in order to keep the Seven Kingdoms from war and Rhaegar at bay as he takes the Iron Throne.</p><p>(aka if the North and South's most temperamental, strong-willed miscreants got together)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

> Thought this pairing would be interesting to play with. Both Oberyn and Lyanna are hotheads, I suspect they would clash terribly, but they both crave freedom and follow their passions, so their marriage would lead to undeniably amusing, yet dramatic ends.
> 
> Also, I have no idea what I'm doing.

"You would have me wed that wretched little bitch? The very child that dishonored our sister?" Oberyn's voice is laced with venom, quivering with his barely contained fury. It is all too clear the pretenses under which he was decreed the Red Viper. Doran meant to navigate these waters with relative ease-- he had contacted the North and King's Landing, each raven whispering tones of inquiry. Each, blessedly, had sent a reply confirming the plan he had wished to set into motion. 

The Prince of Dorne hadn't, however, accounted for his brother's reaction. Guessed at the anger, perhaps, but had assumed Oberyn would follow through his end of the negotiation. Doran would not see this investment go sour. Dorne was finished planting deals and having them rot before they had barely began to grow to fruition. 

"I would have you service Dorne and fulfill the responsibilities of a prince. Rhaegar is not the only one, Oberyn. It's time we made that fact plain to the kingdoms. From the Wall to Sunspear, the realm with know the strength of House Martell." 

"And what of Elia? What of the Princess of Dorne?" Oberyn stalks the confines of Doran's solar like a cat, anger cranking his muscles into tense knots, fists clenching and unclenching, moments away from unleashing his physical presence onto the room. 

"She is a princess no longer, brother. She is to be queen," Doran's words are calm in attempt to sedate the Viper. "Letters from the capital have uttered as much. The Mad King is laying atop his deathbed as we speak. It should not be long."

Oberyn finds solace in a wooden ship adorning Doran's desk top and sends it clashing against the walls. 

Anger always became his younger brother. The dark tones of his skin flushed with emotion and his ragged breathing seemed befitting of a man so renown for his skills in combat; physicality being an inherent attribute of his character, it was only natural for Oberyn to be so intertwined with his passions. 

"And what of Elia's honor?" Oberyn hisses, palms pressed tensely against the contours of the desk as he leans forward, hungry for answers. "What do you suppose she would think of this-- _alliance_?" His mouth finds the last word hard to pronounce for his lips fumble with it. 

"Our dear sister, unlike you, realizes the seriousness of our situation, and wishes me to act accordingly. She wants to settle the rumors. Surely you do not wish to see Elia subjected to such foul whispers? She has suffered enough, gods know."

"Rhaegar would never take this Stark to wed. There hasn't been two Targaryen queens in a hundred years."

"I have heard it said he is quite… attached to this child." Doran watched as Oberyn's eyes narrowed.

" _That bastard_. I will see him broken and beaten like a mule before I reach my last day, I swear it. I will witness him in agony, put him through it myself. He does not deserve our sister."

"This marriage will cause him pain enough. The Dragon Prince will sing many sad songs when this allegiance is settled," Doran appeased, stroking the wooden arms of his seat. 

"I think it a farce, brother, that I should shackle myself to this child--no matter how deeply I resent her--while the silver haired whore's son mourns her." Oberyn's voice is heavy laden with resignation, disgusted with the spoiled taste of defeat. "I propose an exchange, hm? Marry Elia to someone worthy of her, or better yet bring her home. She deserves as much, brother. She has birthed Rhaegar an heir, let that suffice and _bring her home_. Let the prince suckle the North's teat. Let him wed the bitch, instead. _Please_ ," he adds softly under his breath. Oberyn would not beg, it was not in his nature, Doran suspects he does not know how to beg, but realizes this would be the closest Oberyn would get. 

The Prince of Dorne presses his lips together tightly. "I will not see this marriage fail, Oberyn."

His brother's face spasms. In rage or in sadness, Doran cannot discern. But he knows how much the Martells' pride is costing his siblings. Elia paid the price at Harrenhal, shamed and set aside by the crowned prince. Now, Oberyn will suffer the fate of a loveless marriage with a bride that nearly tore the realm apart.

"You are serving me the wolf bitch, brother. _Rhaegar's scraps_." His voice wavers in despair and he pleads with his eyes, hoping that his words might fasten to some stray tether of sympathy and free him from this impending betrothal. 

"She is a Stark. Lord Rickard is Warden of the North and an excellent ally. Once her brother Brandon holds Winterfell, this alliance can only bring us closer. He is very fond of his sister… they share a bond not unlike the one between yourself and Elia. He would not cross us if it put his sister in danger," Doran interprets in earnest, struggling to reach a level of understanding with Oberyn, however contrary his opinion might be. "We need this," he murmurs almost in afterthought. Oberyn's expression does not give hint to a change in perspective. Doran alters his position, hoping to goad his brother into submission. "I did not know you to cower at the sight of wolves, brother."

"I cower before no one," Oberyn snaps, grinding his pale knuckles into the desk.

"They say she is willful. No doubt she will fight you. Reject you, even. But I have Lord Rickard's consent on the matter. He wishes to keep the dragons out of Winterfell and salvage his daughter's honor now that her betrothal to the Baratheons is in shambles. This way is best, I have assured him."

"She'll not do well in Dorne. Northerns always wilt in the South and we are at its pinnacle, are we not, Doran?" 

"I suppose it doesn't matter. I bare Lyanna Stark no ill will, she did not crown herself that wreath of roses at Harrenhal, Rhaegar did that. But of course, she is to be your lady wife, her comfort will reside in your hands."

"You have a gentle heart, brother, but I posses the qualities of a different sort, and I say she'll wilt beneath the sun. That shall be her judgement. All creatures bow to the sun, do they not? Wolves are the same as the rest."

"Be that as it may, you will wed and bed the girl, of course, but don't presume she will submit to your will easily. Northerns breed with winter's blood, their veins are filled with ice." Doran's voice is soft, cautious, but doesn't lack severity. "You aren't familiar with her nature."

"She's a child and that is all I need know."

"Rhaegar saw no child when he stole the girl from her bed." Doran counters, anger animating his tongue as it snaps against his teeth, his renowned patience wearing thin under his brother's insubordinate rebuttals. "You would be wise to remember that, Oberyn. The crowned prince may be foolish in that regard, but never forget who he is. They say many things about Targaryens, not all of them great. Don't insult your future king when you take his prize, take it in silence."

The young prince scoffed, "If you expect me to--"

"I expect you to obey!" Doran controverts, fist pounding down on the desk in an uncharacteristic bout of rage. "And if that means wedding that child with your tongue ripped from your throat, so help me Oberyn, you will not bait these dragons into conflict. I have worked tirelessly to secure our family's wellbeing and survival, I will not see it turn to ash because of your shallow insolence and incapacity to abide by my authority. We have all been forced to make sacrifices in the past, Elia most of all-- now it is your turn. Do not disappoint me, brother." 

Oberyn evades the Prince of Dorne's gaze, choosing instead to stare indefinitely at some distant abstraction along the walls of the solar. Doran watches the muscles in the Viper's jaw shift and gather tension before dissipating only to begin tightening again in a cycle of affliction. The young prince mulls the predicament over in his head, conscious of Doran studying him before giving a deliberately brief nod. 

Doran sighs. "Thank you, Oberyn," he hums gratefully as he leans back in his chair. 

His brother's lips falter in speech, the cords of his elegant neck contracting. "But if you--Don't expect me--" Frustrated, he exhales. "This girl… this child… she will not be satisfied with this marriage, I hope you know. And when our bed grows cold and we cannot bare the sight of one another, I only ask you to not interfere. I was not meant for these vows, you know that, and I'll not keep to them. Don't expect me to, Doran. As I reap the rotten seeds you worked so hard to sow, don't patronize me as I fall."

"You'll not fall, I promise you that."

With a smile as bitter as the taste congealing in the back of his throat, Oberyn strides from Doran's solar, his broad shoulders slumping infinitesimally under the burden of defeat.


	2. Chapter 2

She sits on the windowsill, shrouded in sunlight like some maid conjured from one of the old songs, and Brandon thinks it a shame just how well sorrow suits his young sister, as if such a creature were designed for devastation. Her creator had fashioned her cheeks for tears and the pert bow of her lips was strung for trembling. From the doorway Brandon can see her struggling to dominate her emotions, yet each breath she expels is raw and quivering and the lurid spark with which her grey eyes used to glow holds none of its luminosity, just the tenderness of a child afraid of the dark.

Lyanna's frame obstructs the pools of sunlight pouring in through the windowpane as she lounges against its sill. She slumps with one foot tucked beneath her and the other grazing the floor lightly with the tips of her toes, her gown is hiked up and brushing the bottoms of her knees.

Her feet are bare and her hair untidy, left down in the untamed northern fashion. It wasn't as if Brandon excepted his sister to evolve upon her time in King's Landing.

His sweet, boisterous Lya. Not even a prince could change her.

 _A king_ , Brandon corrects himself. _Rhaegar is king now._

She had been playing the women for so long, and Brandon speculates that the girl peering out at him with those doleful eyes was shocked to realize how young she really was. Lips parted in callow suspension, Lyanna tucks her knees to her chest in perfect imitation of her childhood habit, pale gown slipping over the slope of her knee to expose bruises littering the straight of her shin. The hemline tangles with the rush of her toes and her fingers cling to the fabric with naive desperation, arms wrapping around her legs in a caricature of adolescence.

"Come on, Lya."

The name slips unwarranted from his lips, attached to so many memories and youthful misadventures. He sees her as she was in Winterfell: loud and rambunctious, swinging wooden swords, challenging members of the household guard to duels, sneaking into the practice yard wearing Ned's old trousers.

Brandon bites down on the soft flesh of his cheek. He needs to be strong for her.

Lyanna quirks a bitter smile at the name before catching her bottom lip fast in her teeth to keep from crying. A fresh spell of tears begins to stain the pale scarp of her cheekbones and Brandon watches her composure splinter.

He wants to take her into his arms, as he did when she was a child, to soothe her fears with a gentle word and tender touch, but today Lyanna is not a child. She was a woman for Rhaegar and now she will be a women for Oberyn Martell.

The best he can do is lift her up by her elbows and tuck stray tendrils of hair behind her ears like he always did. "Up you go, sis."

"I'm sorry I hit you," she laments gruffly into his jerkin. Brandon scoffs, marveling at the chafe patch of skin along his jaw where her fist had made contact.

Anger suited his sister well, too.

It had been a few days since Brandon had broken the news of her betrothal, and Lyanna had reacted as he anticipated she would. There had been objects thrown across the room, screaming matches every hour. Lyanna's initial reaction was to hit him—hurt him as she was being hurt. Brandon let her have the first punch, felt that his sister deserved to relieve some of the anger and pain she carried in the hollow of her stomach.

Brandon had felt a swell of pride as he stumbled back and swore, spitting out the blood that had pooled along his bottom lip. It was him who had taught her how to hold her fingers and her stance, had showed her how to hoist all her momentum into a hit. And, gods, did he teach her well.

"Don't mind it, Lya. It was a good swing." He tucks her head beneath his chin and smooths down her dark hair gently, rubbing the small her back with his other hand. His palm vibrates with the frantic thrashing of her lungs as they struggle to embrace air, and the calloused pads of his fingertips trace vertically along the measures of her spine. Brandon counts them in his head. "Besides, you might need the practice. Oberyn Martell is not the most honorable of men, sister, as I have heard it said. He fucks who he wants to fuck, and he kills with the same amount of vigor that you'd expect from a Dornishman," he attempts to withhold the contempt from his voice, but fails.

"I can take care of myself, Brandon," Lyanna proclaims, her tone thick with irritation. "He's not my lord husband yet," she growls through clenched teeth, brows furrowing in indignation.

"Soon, sis," he sighs and feels her body stiffen.

"Seven, why _him_?"

Brandon chuckles, but it lacks levity. "Why Rhaegar, sister?"

"Why Robert?" She spits back at him, shoving him hard in the chest, yanking herself from their embrace. "Why any of them?"

Brandon doesn't have an answer for her, but they both understand. It's all political with these high lords. Each move they make has a distinct purpose and the means to an end.

He had rode into King's Landing from Riverrun with every intention of killing Rhaegar in retaliation for stealing his sister, but what he found held great cause for concern: King Aerys was on his deathbed. A grave sickness had shaken him. The capital was in shock, yet amidst the mass of panicked highborns, great changes were manifesting on the horizon.

Some thought it poison, a treasonous plot to settle the Mad King and place Rhaegar swiftly on the throne, a sympathetic figure in the eyes of the Targaryen loyalists. Others discarded the poison theory in favor of speculation that the king's tampering with wildfire and other dark materials might have been the true foundation of such an illness. Regardless, no one considered the matter for very long on account of their being too eager to see the raging and abusive king set aside.

With the small council preparing in all haste for Rhaegar's coronation and the courtiers already muttering their support behind gowns of mourning, it was obvious the Dragon Prince would assume the throne indubitably within the following moon.

Once the gossip of the king died down, the lords and ladies of the capital focused their attention on the heir apparent and future king, and by association, they all began to adopt an inquisitive gaze for Rhaegar's young consort.

They lapped up any hint of scandal they could surmise from the couple; their beautiful, solemn prince and the maid he'd coveted so ardently at the Tourney of Harrenhal…. The one he had crowned the pale wreath of winter roses and taken for his queen of love and beauty. The singers spun their songs, the highborn ladies gloated feverishly in each other's confidence, Princess Elia ceased frequenting her social spheres—and Lyanna Stark became the Maiden reborn.

The chatter escalated and rumors of Rhaegar taking her as his second wife began to emerge.

With that knowledge in mind, Brandon had corresponded with their father immediately after reaching the capital. Lord Rickard's reply had been overdue when it reached Brandon a week past, relaying how the Martells had proposed a marriage alliance between Prince Oberyn, the Princess Elia's youngest brother, and Lyanna. When Brandon called into question the integrity of the match, Rickard Stark's reply was that the Martells were a prominent house and the union might prove to be advantageous for both regions economically and socially, while, additionally, mending the wounds that had been inflicted upon each respective family by members of the Crown.

Understanding his father’s motives for accepting such an offer did not make the fact any less painful. Brandon had hated his father for the choice he was making and because, one day, Brandon would be forced to make decisions of the same caliber in the name of the North and Winterfell when he became its liege lord.

“When will we be wed?” Lyanna breaks him of his reverie. She isn’t looking at him, choosing instead to glare out the window, hugging her arms to her chest.

Brandon’s lower back tightens in stress. Too soon. It is all happening to fucking soon.

They wanted as little celebrity as possible. His father and the Martell advisories had indicated that much. A discrete ceremony and intimate feast; featuring a handful of prominent guests to pay witness and give tribute to Oberyn and Lyanna’s union. They did not want to risk shaming the Crown with Aerys so fresh upon on his deathbed, yet the two families wished for an expedient ceremony.

“Within the moon,” Brandon says with a mouth full of grief, already bemoaning the loss of his beloved sister.

Lyanna does not protest or raise her voice against the cause. Her fingers dig into her forearms and she tightens the line of her shoulders. “I must speak to the prince,” she said in a soft voice that reeks of remorse. “He holds some right to know, I think, brother…. This farce is almost through.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So goddamn sorry. I don't know if an apology would make anything better, but there you go. It's been, like, a year. Any excuse I had died when three months passed since the first chapter. I only have bullshit and no one needs to hear that. 
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> Sorry if it disappoints. 
> 
> I'm sorry for a lot of things, apparently.


End file.
